Strong
by Gwyn Paige
Summary: After Sherlock's "death," everyone expects John to be devastated. As it turns out, the doctor is so much stronger than anyone could have foreseen. Actually a happy post-Reichenbach fic. Oneshot. Please review.


**_This is sort of a companion fic to my oneshot "Dull," but they don't really have anything to do with each other. Each of them explore a different John Watson after the fall in reaction to Sherlock's "death." This one has a happier ending than the other fic, though. Please enjoy and review!_**

He was a sobbing mess by the time he returned home from his first visit to Sherlock's grave.

John had promised himself he wouldn't cry. He promised himself he'd be strong, like when he visited the graves of his fellow soldiers or his parents. He never cried when he laid down flowers for them. He never spoke to them, either, or begged them to still be alive.

Then again, Sherlock had always been the exception to the rule.

John wiped futilely at his eyes with his pocket handkerchief and collapsed into his usual armchair. He hadn't left 221B just yet; he hadn't seen the point in doing so. It was a nice flat, no denying, and now that he had a steady job he could afford to pay all of the rent. Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to make a small deduction from the bill each month, but John still insisted on paying for all of it. It was the least he could do for her; he knew she was hurting from Sherlock's sudden death as well.

Soon enough, John's tears subsided, leaving him with an oddly satisfied feeling in his chest. He felt . . . different, somehow. Sturdier. More sure of himself. He honestly felt as though he could take on the world. The feeling was akin to an adrenaline rush, but it seemed subtler, more constant. He knew that the feeling would last him a long time.

Despite everything, John found himself smiling. He dried his eyes one last time and got up to make tea. He was pleased to notice that his limp, which he had felt coming back as he stood by Sherlock's grave, was now completely gone again. His steps were sure and solid, and his hands didn't tremble even once as he prepared the tea and afterwards took a sip from the mug.

_How strange, _he thought to himself as he settled into his chair and cupped both hands around the mug, keeping it warm. _I ought to be mourning now, shouldn't I? My best friend's gone forever. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He threw himself off of a building. _At this, a pang of sadness went through John's heart. _At least I still feel sad. But at the same time I'm not miserable. I'm stronger, somehow._

And indeed he was. He was still quietly mourning for Sherlock, but, as the weeks went on, he found that the sadness had not taken over his life. It defined him, but only in the smallest sense of the word: his sadness was the thin, black outline of himself, and everything else filled the shape with color and expression. He was bolder now, prouder, and held himself to a higher standard than he had previously. He didn't know it, but subconsciously, he was trying to be the man Sherlock had always seen him as: the strong, brave, solid army doctor, who wasn't afraid to take chances, who helped anyone he could, who always put other people's needs before his own.

John stopped having nightmares. Oftener and oftener he would actually get a full night's sleep. He was promoted to head surgeon at St Bart's. He remained at 221B Baker Street; the memories that the place held were too precious for him to leave behind and forget. They made him more happy than sad nowadays. Besides, as he said to close friends such as Greg and Molly, he couldn't possibly leave Mrs Hudson all alone.

To everyone's surprise, John never quite got into the dating business again. "You might actually be able to keep one this time, now that the freak's gone," Donovan said snidely, but for once there was no cruelty in her words. She might have been an arse to Sherlock when he was alive, but now that he was gone she seemed to be respecting his memory, at least. John would have liked her to lay off the "freak"s a bit, but knowing Donovan, this was probably the most respect he was going to get out of her.

Every once in a while, Lestrade would text or ring him, asking for his help on a particularly difficult case. This was another new thing John had been doing: he'd begun to study up on Sherlock's methods of deduction. While he was cleaning (some of) Sherlock's things (all right, none of them) out of the flat, he'd found boxes full of notebooks and binders, containing his flat mate's discoveries and notes. He read every single one from cover to cover, inhaling as much information as he possibly could. By the end of it he thought his brain was going to burst, but he found that he could recall the information rather easily. He drilled himself for hours on end, testing his newfound abilities, until he was confident that he could adequately fill Sherlock's empty position as a consulting detective.

When John first told Lestrade about his new "hobby," the man simply grinned and told him he'd text him if he needed him, which he promptly did only a week later.

_Got a case for you. Bit strange. Interested? -GL_

_God yes. -JW_

It had been a rather tame one, despite its unusual circumstances. A rather large woman had been found dead, presumably murdered, in a construction site that had been abandoned for years. However, there were no markings on her that suggested the use of a weapon of any sort, and, even stranger, no sign of a struggle. They would have suspected a repeat of the "Study in Pink" cab driver, but there had been no other murders and it didn't even attempt to look like a suicide.

"Husband was cheating on her, she knew about the girlfriend but never said anything; probably she was afraid he'd leave her because of her size. Had several small dogs, maybe a cat; her boots are so scuffed up it's hard to tell. On an evening stroll when the deed was done. She didn't take her usual route home, it was much longer than the one she was taking that evening; maybe she was tired, maybe it was getting dark, but either way she took a shortcut which eventually led to her death. Not a specific target, then, just someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was dragged into the construction site, that much is obvious going by the state of the back of her dress, but not against her will, the rips are straight and relatively clean; she was either killed or knocked out before the murderer brought her here, most likely the former. As to how she died, I'll have to look at the blood tests to be sure, but more than likely it was some sort of poison. No evidence of asphyxiation or drug overdose, so poison's the next best bet."

He said a lot more than this; he remembered how Sherlock used to ramble on and on about whatever he deduced about the body and the area surrounding it, and John tried to do just that. He liked to think he was doing it the way Sherlock would've, but he wasn't quite sure.

That is, until he was finished talking and found that he had pretty much solved the case right then and there. _Just like Sherlock would've done, _he thought, allowing himself a little pride. _Good on you, John Watson. Maybe you're not complete rubbish at this sort of thing after all._

"John?" John had just been getting ready to leave the crime scene when he heard Lestrade's voice behind him. He turned. "Yes? Did I do alright?"

"That was . . ." Lestrade sucked in a breath through his nose and looked up at the night sky (_He's intimidated, _John thought, accidentally deducing again), ". . . positively brilliant."

John raised his eyebrow, surprised. "Really?"

"Yes. Absolutely. I mean, maybe not as good as he was, but damn good all the same." Lestrade narrowed his eyebrows, squinting at John. "When did you start . . . you know . . . studying his work? Two months ago, was it?"

"Ah, no . . . two weeks."

Lestrade's eyes widened considerably. It almost looked comical. "Two _weeks_? You can do _that_ in two bloody _weeks_?"

John grinned. "Well, I did learn from the best." Then he turned on his heel and left, looking forward to settling down in front of the fire with a steaming cuppa before he went to bed.

He missed Sherlock terribly sometimes. He often found himself wishing for someone to leave eyeballs in the microwave or put their feet up on the furniture or ask him to hand them something sitting five feet away.

Sometimes he would talk out loud to himself, pretending that Sherlock was there to listen to him.

"Today I solved a really difficult case, Sherlock. I wish you'd have been there to see it. Lestrade's practically in love with me now; he says that without me Scotland Yard would be ruined. I wish he'd have said that to you when you were around. He owes you the compliment more than he owes me. You're the reason that I can do this, Sherlock. I meant it when I said that I learned from the best—it was your notes that I read, your observations that I studied. The only one we've got to thank is you, Sherlock."

John really did have Sherlock to thank for everything. He didn't like to think about what position he would be in now had Sherlock not invited him to share a flat with him, or if he had not gone out for a walk the day he was called over by Mike Stamford. Because of Sherlock's intrusion into his life, even if he did have to leave him again after only a year or so together, John saw the world in a different way. He was undoubtedly happier than he had been before he met Sherlock, and although he was undoubtedly sadder than when he was with Sherlock, he was still quite happy in his own way. He no longer needed Sherlock to be happy; Sherlock was still there, inside of him, deducing and making snarky comments and urging him onward into excitement and danger, just like he used to. He could be happy on his own. He could be strong on his own. It was the cane incident all over again. Sherlock had given him the strength he needed to run with him, and, though the excitement was over, he found that the strength to stand up on his own was still there. It had always been there, he realized; Sherlock had merely pulled it out and showed it to him.

Yes, his best friend was gone. Yes, he was never coming back. Yes, their adventures together were over. But, in leaving, Sherlock had given John the ability to find his own adventures. And, for that, John couldn't thank him enough.

* * *

THREE YEARS LATER

As it turned out, John had underestimated how expensive the rent would prove to be when he was the only one paying it, even with his larger salary at the hospital.

After three years of trying to catch up with his debts, John Watson finally put his foot down and placed an advert in the classifieds for a flat mate willing to pay his half of the rent. He also posted a notice on his blog, which he had continued to update faithfully throughout the years, writing about the cases that he had helped solve.

He received a reply to the notice on his blog almost immediately, from an email address he did not recognize:

_I would love to share the rent on your flat. I will arrive to look at the place and discuss the share at 10 o'clock tomorrow morning._

John replied with a simple _Sounds fine. I'll see you then. _If the man (he had specifically asked for a man; he didn't want any of the awkward squeamishness that went with having a woman as a flat mate) was a weirdo or looked suspicious, he could simply turn him down. And besides, he really needed a flat mate at this point. Mrs Hudson was extremely accommodating and insisted that his debt was nothing to worry about, but John was an honest man and would never try to swindle someone as kind as the landlady of 221B Baker Street out of her money. Once he found a suitable flat mate, he was determined to pay her back in full.

The following morning (at exactly ten o'clock, John noticed), the downstairs doorbell rang.

"I've got it, Mrs Hudson," he called down, pulling on his coat (he wanted to look presentable, in case the potential flat mate was one of those upper-class types) and heading down the stairs. "That'll be my new flat mate, I believe."

"All right, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, sticking her head out of the door of 221A as John passed by. "Good luck! Hopefully this one won't be tracking mud across the floor or playing violin at all hours of the night." She smiled sadly; she missed Sherlock just as much as John did. She gave John's hand a reassuring squeeze and disappeared back into her own flat.

The doorbell rang again. "Coming, coming!" John called, walking swiftly toward the front door and flinging it open. "Sorry about—" He stopped in mid-sentence. His mouth hung open on its own accord and he froze in shock. He hardly dared to believe his eyes.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said.


End file.
